


All The Myriad Ways (for one stupid Prince to go)

by Corvid_Knight



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Earth C (Homestuck), M/M, Poor Dirk, dissasociative episode, my tumblr is knight-of-heart-and-art, weirdass godtier shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 02:59:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13989045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Dirk's always at least a little aware of all the possible versions of himself. Sometimes it's more than a little. Sometimes he ends up being completely aware of every splinter in every universe.There's an infinity of universes.title taken from Larry Niven'sAll The Myriad Ways.





	All The Myriad Ways (for one stupid Prince to go)

You are Dirk Strider, and— 

( _you've paused for a second while reaching for a cup_ )

( _you barely caught the cup as it slipped out of your hands_ )

( _you dropped the cup and it hit the floor and instantly shattered_ )

—you're curled up on the kitchen floor, shaking, surrounded by the shards of a cup that you ( _dropped_ ) ( _caught_ ) broke. All the things you didn't do ( _did_ ) are crashing through your head, all the myriad Dirks whose paths diverged, whose _universes_ diverged, some just a little and some so wildly you barely know the versions of you that you're fully, hellishly aware of. 

You're the Prince of Heart, and in this moment you see into an infinity of hearts. Every one is yours. Every one is _you._

( _drifting through the darkness out beyond the dreambubbles, a ghost who saved no one_ )

( _wrists slit for the first (hundredth) time, sight going blessedly dark as you pray you won't wake up_ ) 

( _standing over Dave with a sword in your hand, dropping to your knees to grab a handful of his hair and yank his bleeding face up to look at you_ ) 

"No!" You hear your voice crack as you cry out. You can feel half of an infinity of universes where you don't say anything, just sob and curl further around yourself, another half an infinity of iterations of you that actually _laugh_ at the thought of hurting him, hurting your brother, your fucking _brother_ — "No, please, no, don't—" 

You're begging the you ( _all the myriad Dirks_ ) who's beating the fuck out of Dave to stop, just _stop,_ please, you'll kill him ( _them_ ) ( _yourself_ ) if he doesn't stop. Doesn't matter if that's another world; you will fucking rip through the timelines to get to that version of yourself and strangle him ( _kill yourself_ ) with your bare hands. 

And what then? 

Of the infinity of versions of you that you can feel through your heart, some fraction of them are exactly like the one you're fixated on. 

Mathematics states that any fraction of infinity is still infinite. 

"Please," you beg, forcing yourself to roll onto your side and free up one of your arms. At least you think you're doing that. Some fraction of the Dirk's who're lying on the floor are curling their right hand into a fist, slamming it into the side of their head to try to change something, _anything_. Make it stop. 

You can't tell if you're feeling reflected pain from other versions of yourself, or if the blood in your mouth is your own. You can't fucking _tell._

( _a sea troll in a white shirt and bluejeans pushes the door open, ears flaring in alarm as he sees you on the floor_ ) 

( _Roxy calls your name from the other room and you hate that she's here, hate that you pushed down so much of yourself to make her happy and hate yourself for hating that, for hating her_ ) 

( _the door opens and slams shut and a sword clatters on tile (_ linoleum _)(_ hardwood _)as Dave falls to his knees beside you and asks you what the hell happened, tongue tripping over the syllables like it does when he's afraid for his life_ ) 

The door opens ( _an infinity of doors open_ ) and even though you can't move, you feel John enter the room like a cool breeze, even before he gasps and kneels down to put a hand on your shoulder. "Dirk? Oh my god, Dirk, can you tell me what's wrong? Do I need to call Jake?" 

Jake. You think of Jake, ( _the Page_ ) ( _the person who hates you more than anyone else on this earth_ ) ( _Lord English's vessel_ ) your boyfriend, your partner. Him and John. In this timeline and—and half an infinity of others. 

Half an infinity is still an infinity. 

John's hand is still on your shoulder. Even though you haven't answered his question, haven't moved or acknowledged his existence at all, you can hear him dialing a number on his phone with his other hand. 

( _it rings and rings and John curses under his breath and drops the phone to the floor_ )

( _it rings and an answering machine answers, you know because you hear the godawful shriek of the "beep" Hal programmed in for a joke and Jake hasn't let you fix yet_ ) 

( _Jake answers and John absently switches speakerphone on_ ) 

"Jake," John says, and you can feel the bite of worry ( _stress_ ) ( _irritation_ ) ( _resigned anger_ ) in his tone. "Shut _up,_ you douche, we've got a problem." 

( _over the speakerphone, you hear Jake ask what kind of problem_ ) 

( _over the speakerphone, you hear Jake huff in irritation and tell John that it's_ his _problem_ ) 

There's a quick pause, and then John says, "A Dirk problem, Hal texted me to come check on him because he just fucking collapsed and he's—Dirk, can you talk to me? At all? Is this a mental thing, did you fuck up with sleeping or eating again, what's _wrong_?" 

( _you curl up into a tighter ball_ ) 

( _you strike out at John, fist hitting his chest, hurt him a little so you don't hurt him more later, anything to get him to abandon you with the deserved pain of being alone_ ) 

( _you try to speak and the ghost of Lil' Cal laughs in your head and you choke on the words_ ) 

"Aspect." The word tastes like blood in your mouth. Your lip hurts. "Heart. Fucking—" 

All the myriad ways. All the myriad _Dirks._

"Get your ass over here, Jake," John snaps, and then he _does_ drop the phone. Drops the phone again. He's dropped the phone an infinity of times since he came in. "Dirk, hey. Can I touch you? Are you okay with that?" 

( _you tell him yes_ ) 

( _you tell him no and he hauls you up anyway and you cry out in panic_ ) 

( _you don't, can't, respond, can't do anything, can't think or breathe or feel your own body_ ) 

You move your head. Just a little, but it's so difficult to do, to make decisions and follow through on them despite the weight of all the myriad Dirks, that the almost imperceptible nod feels like lifting your own body weight. 

( _John—_ ) 

( _he—_ )

"No," you mumble, trying to focus on the timelines that only diverge the slightest bit, where John's gently turning you over, pulling you into his lap and keeping your limp body from just falling over to crack your stupid head against the ( _black tile_ ) ( _badly laid linoleum_ ) floor, the _floor,_ fuck the details, the floor. "No, fu-fuck you..." 

"Dirk?" John's keeping you steady, your back against his chest and his arm holding you up. He—

( _holds on just a little tighter_ ) 

( _finds your hand and laces his fingers through your limp ones_ ) 

—reaches up to push your hair out of your eyes, making a softly concerned sound as the fact that your shades are gone registers. "No, like you want me to let go?" 

"Don't." Words are so fucking difficult; you can sense, taste, feel all the infinity of words that you might be (no, that you _are_ ) speaking right now, in other universes. "Stay." 

"I won't leave you, I swear." ( _his hand keeps running through your hair_ ) ( _he makes a soothing noise that you_ know _he learned from hearing Karkat use it on Dave_ ) He shifts under you, pulling you over without letting you slip off his lap, and leans back against ( _the stove_ ) ( _the fridge_ ) ( _a defunct battlebot_ ) the cabinet under the sink. "Jake should be here in a couple minutes, either he'll fix this or I'll drag Terezi up here and get her to poke around in your head; you'll get covered in spit but she can work it out. That won't even be a thing, though—you know Jake, his Hope stuff's weird but he can do whatever he wants with it—" 

"Mhm." You nod slightly, concentrating on John as he just keeps talking. It's a good anchor, a nice way to tell where you are. Which Dirk you are. _His_ Dirk, John's Dirk, that's which one you are, (probably) in the right place in the right universe, (probably) not all that fucked up beyond your stupid perception. 

Probably. 

Things splinter into a few dozen possibilities again when Jake pushes the door open; this time, you manage to focus on just one—or at least the subset of infinite possibilities that feature a Jake with messy hair and his shirt on inside-out, green eyes wide behind his glasses, luminous with the same ivory-gold glow that's already lighting up his hands as well. He's already fully ready to use his Hope powers on you, and you're so fucking thankful. 

"Bloody hell, Dirk," he murmurs as he sits down on the floor next to you, leaning over to get a better look at your face.p "You look awful." 

He hasn't even touched you yet, but you think you're still getting a little of the benefits of his Hope powers, his unwavering belief that he can fix this, because it's easy-ish to raise an eyebrow at him. "No shit." 

You can feel John's barely-contained laugh through his contact with you, and Jake rolls his eyes. "I suppose I am stating the obvious, aren't I?" He raises one hand, letting you see the aura around it and watching your face. "May I?" 

Jake always asks, before he uses his powers on you. Even if he knows you'll say yes, he _asks_ , because Hope powers can be so fucked up if they're used without consent, if their reality-altering properties are abused. 

(Not that he'd ever abuse them. You believe he'd never do that, and even if your belief doesn't carry the same power his does, no one's going to change your mind about this.) 

"Dirk?" Jake prompts gently, when you just stare at the shifting light around his hand for a long moment. 

Oh. Yeah. An answer. 

"Do it," you tell him. "Please?" 

"Of course, love." And Jake reaches out and presses his hand gently on your chest, just over your heart. 

It's warm, even through your shirt. 

It doesn't hurt. Of course it doesn't; Jake wouldn't let it. And it's only a few seconds before the awareness of all the infinity of possible versions of you fades. It doesn't completely go away—it never has, never will; you're always dimly aware of every splinter of yourself—but now it's just the knowledge that they exist, rather than the bright, overwhelming sensory input from every fucking one of them. The change drags a shiver and a whimper out of you, both prompted by sheer relief. 

"Dirk?" John asks, adjusting you in his lap so he can see your face, as Jake sits back on his heels and looks down at his still-glowing hands with a curious expression. "C'mon, give us a status report." 

He learned that phrase from you, and you have to smile as he uses it _on_ you. "Uh. Better. Green. Actually green, not just me saying that, I swear." 

"Green's good." John nods and wraps his arms around your shoulders again, waiting for you to relax against him as he glances over at Jake. "How about you, dude?" 

"Hm?" The glow finally fades from Jake's hands as he blinks and looks up, a puzzled look flashing across his face before he grins brightly. "Oh, I'm aces. Just taking a look at what's got Dirk tied up in knots this time, is all." 

"Maybe don't do that," you suggest. You hate having Jake, John, _anyone_ know about the worst you can be. It's like a reminder just how close you are to being that kind of scum, like—

( _Dave's bro_ ) 

Stop. 

Dave would kick your ass, verbally and quite possibly literally, if he heard you seriously comparing yourself to that asshole again. You've had this talk with him a couple times, when you were at your hellish low points, before you finally got together with first John, then Jake. There was a span of time when Karkat called you and Dave moirails, pale for each other, and fuck, maybe you were. 

Or maybe you were just being, you know. Brothers. 

You don't have enough experience with normal families to judge. 

The feel of hands on yours makes you realize you're drifting. Jake's moved forward again, when you focus on him; he's holding your left hand, fingers laced with yours as he watches you. John's got your other hand, clumsy with the little gestures as he always is, like he's worried that he's got you too tight or not tight enough, like he thinks he's doing it wrong. You squeeze his hand a little, and Jake's too; John'll take the gesture as reassurance and Jake will see it as simple affection. They're both right. 

"Dirk, did you sleep last night?" John murmurs into your ear. He sighs when you immediately tense up at the question, and Jake echoes it. 

"You're supposed to _tell_ us when you don't sleep, sweetheart," Jake chides gently, his free hand coming up to rest on your shoulder as John starts finger-combing your hair again. "Especially if it triggers this sort of thing—" 

"Not what this is," you protest. You could tell him that it's probably the opposite—you've felt uneasy for more than a week, depression and anxiety making you unwilling and unable to sleep for more than catnaps, with dreams that were too vivid and too plausible to be _just_ dreams torturing you every time you did manage to sleep. 

You could tell them that. Or you could just open and close your mouth a few times and finally just shut your eyes, making soft half-irritated sounds that no one's going to mistake for words as you lean back onto John. 

"Yes, Dirk, love, we _know._ " Jake laughs even as the endearment comes out of his mouth, extricating his hand from yours. "Let me have him, John..." 

You only have to help with this process a little, mostly by wrapping your arms around Jake's neck as he scoops you up out of John's lap—thanks to the helpful little miracle of being godtier, either one of your boyfriends can pick you up like you weigh nothing. Even without the whole god powers thing, Jake could probably carry you; you're skinny and he's strong as fuck. 

He carries you to the other room, and you don't open your eyes once. When he sets you gently on the bed, John's already there to manhandle you into the position he wants you in, closer to the middle and draped over him. 

_Now_ you open your eyes, as you prop your chin in your hands on his chest, blinking at the deep blue of his eyes. His hands are already working their way across your back, rubbing gently and pushing tension away. John's not always completely confident in how he touches you, but he _does_ touch you, so often, and you love that. Some part of you still hasn't made up for the first decade and a half of your life, the lack of contact there, and there's no one you'd rather fill that deficit than John and Jake. 

Jake settles on the bed even as you think of him, holding out his arms and humming softly as John shifts you to lay between the two of them, on your side and facing Jake. He wraps an arm around your shoulders as John keeps petting and massaging, both pulling you closer and moving closer himself, careful not to make you move away from John. 

You're surrounded. You're swaddled in all the love you (don't? No, stop, Dave really is going to kick your ass) deserve, all the love you desire. This is the best of all the myriad ways your life could have gone. 

You're warm. 

You close your eyes, relax between Jake and John, and let yourself go the fuck to sleep.


End file.
